


Good Dream

by yeaka



Category: Maleficent (2014)
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-28 03:14:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2716811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The captain of the guards gets a late night visit from his favourite raven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Dream

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: The captain of Stefan’s guards doesn’t seem to have a name, but I think the actor’s name is John, so I’m using that. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Maleficent or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

There’s something heavy atop him that isn’t part of the dream. It’s stretched across his waist, straddling his hips, pinning him beneath the blankets to the mattress, and that’s part of what wakes him—the mere reminder that he’s lying down. The rest is the gentle nuzzling against his cheek, a pointed nose and soft lips, and then something’s tickling his skin; he opens his eyes to squint up at a dark curtain of hair that’s fallen around him. 

There’s a dark figure over him, and he pushes it up with a start. Held above John, the moonlight’s given a chance to wash properly around Diaval’s side, making his pale skin glow at the edges. John lets out a sigh of relief and drops his hands from Diaval’s chest, mumbling, “Hello.” It comes out garbled around his yawn, and he rubs at his eyes to make sure he’s really awake. But he’s grinning, of course. Diaval shifts over him, a leg throwing back over his side, and John reaches sideways to lift the covers in invitation. 

Smiling just as broadly, Diaval maneuvers his way under. He crawls his way over John’s body, now just their clothes between them, the blankets silhouetted over Diaval’s shoulders like the outline of great wings. As he leans back down to return his attentions to John’s face, John asks, “How did you get in?” Perhaps he’ll have to tighten his security, if it’s this easy for a full-grown man to wander into the captain of the guards’ chambers. 

But Diaval purrs, “Flew in through the window,” like it’s obvious. Even when it’s growing cold out, like tonight, John always leaves the window open for his lover. But usually his lover’s quite a bit smaller and feathered. John raises his eyebrows at the flippant explanation.

“Learned to do that on your own, have you?” Impressive. He keeps his voice light until he knows, though; if Diaval had retained his own magical abilities, he wouldn’t have waited for the night to show off. 

Indeed, Diaval shakes his head. “She made this one timed.” How ingenious. The more John learns of the evil witch his mad king is always on about, the more John finds he likes her. She did make Diaval what he is, after all, and for that if nothing else, John will be eternally grateful.

Giving in to kiss Diaval back, first on the lips and then on the cheek, John asks in between pecks, “How long do we have?” He’s hoping all night. He’ll have to leave in the morning, of course, and it won’t do if servants come in, but still, let it be a long time. 

Diaval murmurs, “An hour.” Which isn’t nearly enough, but is something. Arms to either side of John already, Diaval’s hands come to stroke the sides of John’s face, dusting over darker skin and growing stubble, something that always seems to amuse Diaval, and he sighs languidly, “But I want some of that time to cuddle while I can feel as much of your body as I can, so we’d best get started.” There’s almost a challenge in the way he smirks, so devastatingly handsome. 

John doesn’t need to be told twice. He digs his elbows into the bed and lunges up at Diaval, smashing their lips together properly, hungry and open and tongue out right away; Diaval mewls happily and parts for it. For a man used to eating through a beak, Diaval is surprisingly good with his mouth. Or maybe John’s just sick with love, and everything about Diaval seems perfect, from the ends of his coat to the marks on his cheeks. John would reach to stroke them, one of his favourite parts of Diaval to touch, but instead his hands lift to Diaval’s sides, clutching at the too-thick fabric. For a moment, he just enjoys the weight of Diaval atop him, the warmth of Diaval’s body in his hands, the taste of Diaval on his tongue. Then he grabs Diaval tight and rolls them abruptly over, until he’s on top and the blankets are half stuck between them. He stays above Diaval on his hands and knees, then rolls his hips forward, crotch grinding into Diaval’s through all their layers, and Diaval tosses his head back into the pillow to moan. His sleek hair is scattered around him like an ash-black halo, his blunt lashes fluttering down over his pure black eyes. He’s a gorgeous creature, and for tonight, he’s all _John’s_. 

His belt is in the way. John fiddles with it, sliding the end through the clasp, and wonders aloud: “Why must you transform in clothes at all?” Magic is still a hazy, incomprehensible thing to John, and he ponders it while he sits back up on his knees, the blankets toppling off his shoulders.

Diaval pushes at the loose fabric of John’s nightshirt and asks, “Why must humans wear clothes at all?” A fair question that John has no answer for. He lifts his own shirt over his head to help, tossing it aside. Then he’s shoving open Diaval’s long coat, and Diaval wriggles out of it, shoulders pulling free. John throws it to the side of the bed while Diaval pulls his shirt off, joining the heap. Before John can push at Diaval’s pants, he stops to admire the view, all smooth, milky-white skin with intricate indentations down his neck and chest. He’s beautiful like this: a work of art. John has to pause to bring himself back to Diaval’s face, and he covers Diaval’s mouth again in a fervent, appreciative kiss. 

When he’s finished, Diaval breathes, “I admit there are... perks... to this body.” He might mean the feelings he gets. The pleasure of being touched. Or admired. Or maybe he’s just being vain again and loving being irresistible. 

John kisses him hard on the jaw, lingering and dragging down, sucking nimbly along his throat and nipping at the arc of his ridges. John pauses to lick at the indentation of his collarbone, to lap down his chest, rising and falling hard with each panted breath, hips shuddering beneath John’s fingers. The more John kisses him, the warmer Diaval grows, the more ragged his breath becomes and the more erotic his noises sound, hushed but wanting. John trails long, messy kisses over his nipple, licks at it and sucks on it, pebbles it and drifts to the other, loving Diaval’s strained moan. Then John kisses down his chest, skims over the faint ridges along his hips, pokes a curling tongue into his navel and laps down to bite at the hem of his pants, the belt held wide open. 

Diaval bucks his hips up into John’s hand and drops one hand into John’s hair, trying to push him in for more. John mercifully acquiesces, fists tugging down Diaval’s pants and trailing kisses in their wake, down through the dark mat of hair below his stomach, over the base of his length, and finally, as it’s fully revealed, against the head of his cock. Diaval gasps and digs his fingers almost painfully into the back of John’s skull, and John gives Diaval’s shaft a long, wet lick the whole way down. He can feel each little crosshatched bump against his tongue, loves that little difference, that reminder that Diaval isn’t quite human, just as much as the pink, spongy head and the faint shadows of veins beneath the skin. It’s a long, curved, glorious thing that John reaches to feel in his hand, warm and pulsing with life. Diaval’s creamy thighs try to lift and squeeze around him, but John holds Diaval down and rises back up, much to his lover’s annoyed protests. 

There are things that need doing. Climbing back up Diaval’s body, he presses a hard kiss to Diaval’s brow before he goes for his nightstand, reaching over to fish in the top drawer. It’s an old, battered thing, like most of the furniture in his room, all the castle’s resources bent on other, useless things like fighting back the glory that is Diaval’s world. His possessions aren’t many, and soon enough his fingers are curling around a little vial of oil. 

As he pulls it out, Diaval licks his lips, eyes alight. John pulls the vial towards himself and opens the cap. Diaval knows the purpose of it by now, and his legs shift automatically across the sheets, parting around John’s body, spread and ready. 

John pets his thigh and says, “I’m glad of your human form, for you’re a beauty beyond what I deserve.” Diaval grins at the compliment, vanity appeased. But a grand raven warrants having his feathers stroked, and sometimes John suspects Diaval doesn’t normally get as much appreciation as he deserves. Not overtly, anyway. John is happy to express his adoration, happier when Diaval’s fingers deftly fall on his night pants, tugging at the tie. 

John lets Diaval open and shuffle down his pants, lets Diaval reach in and cup his cock, pull it out while Diaval suppresses a shiver and a moan. John’s not much longer than Diaval, but he’s thicker, straighter, smoother in his human skin. He looks darker than usual against Diaval’s pallid hand, and their contrast always seems to make this more striking to John. Unlike his king, John appreciates their differences. When he fondly pets the ridges along Diaval’s sides, it’s with an almost awestruck admiration. He even loves the pointed tip of Diaval’s nose and the blackness of Diaval’s eyes, like he’s already dilated with pleasure. As Diaval holds John’s cock out before him, John tips the vial and drips some oil along it. Diaval drags his fingers through it and pumps it along John’s cock, while John moans and dips his hand between Diaval’s legs, down below his balls. Digging two fingers between the cheeks of Diaval’s ass, John probes his way forward until he finds the little puckered hole he’s looking for. 

As soon as he taps it, Diaval shivers in his arms, arches up and pleads, “Don’t take too long. We don’t have that much time...”

John silences him with a kiss. John will take whatever time is necessary. He’d never hurt his precious raven, and he circles that warm entrance with his index finger until it dilates wide enough to push inside. He trails oil with him, still slicking it along the entrance, and he sinks into Diaval’s walls at a slow, careful pace, rubbing along the way to encourage Diaval to open. Diaval’s breath is fluttering. John makes his way the knuckle, crooks his finger inside, strokes at the velvety channel around him and begins to move gently in and out, until Diaval is lax and wet enough to take a second finger. Then John can work them in and gently scissor them apart, coaxing Diaval open enough to take something much bigger. Diaval’s legs lift around him while it happens, thighs leaning against his body, pants stretched between them, and shoeless feet landing along his lower back. John waits until Diaval gasps, clenches around him and hisses, “ _John._ ” It’s enough. 

John pulls his fingers out, squeezing one cheek of Diaval’s ass along the way. He draws forwards and goes for his cock, Diaval’s long fingers slipping off. That leaves John free to line himself up, press the tip of his cock against Diaval’s hole, look up at Diaval’s face and get one last view of peace. 

Then he pushes inside, and Diaval’s face contorts, drops back again, breath hitching as John groans, his hips rolling forward before he can stop them. He tries to go slowly, tries to be gentle, but Diaval, as always, feels so _good_ around him, hot and tight right from the start. He tries to rock his hips slowly, do it a little bit at a time, push in, pull out, push in further. He clutches at Diaval’s legs for support, uses them to pull Diaval an extra centimeter forward, nestled right up against his cock. The further he gets inside, the better it feels, the more bliss surrounds him. For a moment, he’s lost to the world, caught up in entering his lover, torturous second by second. 

And then he’s inside, fully inside, and he has to take a moment to stop and breathe and appreciate the perfection of this feeling. No man has ever satisfied him as Diaval can. He knows no man ever will. If only they were free to lie together every night—perhaps the great Maleficent could turn him into a crow, and they could switch between beds and nests, he wouldn’t care. So long as he could be free of a crazed king and serve his lover’s passions instead. He has to remind himself that that isn’t so, that he’s here and his time is limited, and he comes back into himself. He rocks his lower body once, grinding himself into Diaval’s ass, and Diaval squirms on his cock and looks up at him with flushed pink cheeks and a pretty, open mouth. 

John stalks down like a cat on the prowl, drapes over Diaval’s body and flattens them together. He presses his mouth to Diaval’s, licks Diaval’s lips with a feral hunger, and pulls out halfway to plunge back in. Diaval gasps into his mouth, and John does it again, then again, building into a steady, hard rhythm of deep thrusts that grind him as far into his raven’s body as he can go. Diaval’s breath catches on every one. His hips tremble beneath John’s slew of thrusts, trying to jerk back up to meet him. John just pounds him harder into the mattress, enough that the springs start to creak and the old frame groans against the floor. Over the sounds of their breathing and moans and the slapping of skin-on-skin, it’s hardly noticeable. The scent of sex and raw man permeates the air, the temperature spiking while the blankets still cling to the back of their legs. Diaval’s arms wrap around John’s sides, slide up his spine and cling to his shoulders, digging into his skin like talons. He wouldn’t mind a few bruises to take with him for the days when Diaval’s been gone too long. He showers Diaval in kiss after kiss and tries different angles until he finds the one that makes Diaval _scream_ into his mouth, and then he hits that same spot on every thrust. Diaval only tries to curl tighter around him, like trying to wrap him in wings. The image spurs John on. The taste of Diaval, the bump of his sharp nose, the smell of his sweat and his want and the feeling of his hard cock digging into John’s chest drive John wild. It feels good, so impossibly _good_ , but all Diaval’s ever been to him is heaven.

He shows his thanks by reaching between them, one hand holding onto Diaval’s waist while the other wraps around his cock, squeezing before pumping him in time with the thrusts. John can feel every little bump and groove, the same crosshatched pattern as Diaval’s cheeks, except that this organ seems to throb in his hand, engorged and filled and ready to burst. John strokes it with the remnants of oil and Diaval’s own sweat, and neither of them can last long under the pressure—Diaval is always unused to human delights and John is so madly in love. Diaval is utterly perfect for him. To him. Around him. He can tell when Diaval’s nearing the edge, just _knows_ , and he kisses Diaval harder to stifle the cries so they don’t wake up half the castle. 

A second later, Diaval is spending himself in John’s hand, bucking up and screaming into John’s mouth. His whole body stiffens, his ass clenching around John’s cock, his shaft going rigid in John’s fingers, and then it’s splattering John’s chest, smearing up between them, even as they rub together in their mess of kisses. The convulsing of Diaval’s ass is more than John can take, and he’s following a moment later, spilling himself inside his raven and trying to bite back his own roar. Diaval holds him tightly the entire while, their hips still rocking together like they don’t know how to stop, slowly ebbing out until they’re just gradually grinding. In time, even that stops, and their kisses dissipate into helpless panting, their bodies sticky and their chests glued together and John plugging Diaval’s ass up with his seed. 

For a long moment, John has neither the strength to move nor the will to pull out. It’s always a little strange, being inside when his hardness is flagging, when Diaval is spent and limp beneath him, but he stays all the same. He moves his hands back to the pillow so he can support his own weight on his elbows and knees, hovering above his lover with a haze of satisfaction about him. Diaval looks up at him, still trembling in delight. 

Then Diaval makes a mewling sound and wraps around John again, tightening his grip in a hug. He nuzzles into John’s ear like an animal and whispers, “I wish I could take you back to the Moors with me.”

John wishes that too. More than he can ever say. For now, all he can do is thread his fingers in Diaval’s long hair, kiss Diaval’s cheek and promise, “Soon, my love. Soon.” When this wretched curse has passed and the people can see that the king was wrong, that there is no threat to them and never was. When they can rise up, rebel, call madness for what it is and restore their land to peace. Some day, it will happen. 

He still wishes it would tonight. He sighs as Diaval untangles from him, falls back to the mattress and gives his chest a little shove. John wordlessly obeys. He pulls out of Diaval’s ass, ripping a gasp from both of them and trailing oil and seed that he’ll deal with tomorrow. For now, he rolls off of Diaval, onto his back, and Diaval shifts to his side and stretches luxuriously next to him. John reaches to lovingly stroke his cheek and murmur, “You can stay the night when you’re a raven again.”

Grinning, Diaval asks, “What makes you think I wasn’t already going to?”

John chuckles. He always knew ravens were clever things. He press forward to give Diaval another kiss as he tugs the blankets back up over their half naked, sweaty bodies, and Diaval snuggles into him to enjoy the rest of their too-short time.


End file.
